I shrug. "No, I am here to rescue you," I answer dryly.
Her father turns his head and takes me in. "What is the meaning of this, Nathalie? Release us immediately, do you understand me? How did you even do this? Does your father know?"
My father had wanted them out of sight after the Hartley scandal and had sent them abroad himself, which had made Renzo's job almost easy. His men had simply collected them at the airport before they could board, and locked them up here for three days now. When they sat in this room I had called my father using a voice scrambling app and an old voicemail of my uncle's, told him Switzerland was lovely, and he had said good and hung up within thirty seconds.
I look around the room, and against the wall, there is a metal rod. It was probably left behind by construction workers. I walk over, I pick it up and I feel the weight of it. I flex my wrists and I turn back to Alana's father, dear Uncle Michael.
"I need the evidence," I say. "Everything you did for my father. Every arrangement, every job, every trouble that you made disappear for him over the years. I need all of it."
Michael's face closes off. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says, looking away.
I walk over to him and I strike his shoulder with the rod. He couldn't even dodge. He lets out a groan of pain, a tough man regardless.
Alana screams. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Is he alright? Dad? Dad, answer me!" Tears are running down her face. "You monster!"
"My father thinks you're abroad," I tell Michael, while he recovers. "I could make both of you disappear and he wouldn't know for months. Maybe longer."
Alana goes very still.
"What?" she says.
"No one is looking for you," I confirm.
"That's—" her father starts. "That's impossible, your father would never?—"
"He received a call three days ago," Renzo says pleasantly, from the doorway. "It was your voice, telling him you had arrived in Switzerland and were going off grid for a while. He sent his regards."
"That's not possible," Michael says. "He would have known it wasn't me."
"You'd be surprised," Renzo replies, "what voice scrambling software can do these days."
"You're a problem for him. You both are. He wanted you out of sight after the scandal with Alana and her fiancé." I say. "He doesn't care much, honestly."
"He wouldn't—" Alana starts.
"I showed him the video. One of you is kissing James," I say, turning to look at her.
The color leaves her face completely.
"What?" Michael asks.
"Dad," Alana says immediately, her voice cracking, "don't listen to whatever she's about to?—"
I take out my phone and I press play and I hold it up and Michael watches his daughter passionately kissing James.
When it ends, he laughs. It's a short painful sound.
"He sent us abroad," Michael says slowly, the pieces assembling themselves behind his eyes. "After she was found with the Hartley boy." He looks at the ceiling. "Not to protect us. To get us out of the way."
"To protect the campaign," I agree.
Michael is quiet for a moment. Alana is crying softly beside him with her eyes on her father's face.
"The hard drive," Michael says then, ignoring Alana's sharp intake of breath beside him. "It's in my study. Behind the painting of the lake. You'll need the code." He pauses. "Seven four two nine. It has what you need. Let us go."
"Dad—" Alana says.
"Enough," he tells her, without looking at her.
